This Is the Altar
by Emmy-loo
Summary: Going into deep cover can be a blessing or a curse. Do it right and you're on the fast track to the top. Screw it up and you're dead. John Rider doesn't want to take that chance, but it doesn't look like he has a choice.
1. Chapter 1

Alright, so I'm not exactly sure where this came from. It's a ton of fun to write, though, so expect updates on it pretty often.

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider. **

**

* * *

**

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he had seen some beautiful women. Exotic women, dangerous women, none of them could compare to the angel he was seeing now. None held one millionth of the appeal she had on him, not for all of them put together would he trade her.

Helen Rider. It still felt a little strange to say it, even though they'd been married almost a year now.

He propped his head on his hand and reached over to push a strand of hair off of her face. She smiled slightly in her sleep, and he smiled with her. Her hair was mussed and he could see the tiniest bit of drool on her chin (not that he would _ever_ mention it to her), but a more beautiful sight he had never seen.

Helen groaned and rolled over. "Why're you staring at me, John?" she asked, curling up on her side. John grinned and reached to tickle her, but she swatted him away before he even got close.

"What else is there to look at on a dismal November morning?" he asked, playfully.

"Breakfast," she replied, her voice muffled by blankets. "With jam. And eggs."

"Jam and eggs it is, then!" he said, with more enthusiasm than was probably normal for seven o' clock in the morning. He threw the covers off his side of the bed, careful not to disturb Helen's nest and asked, "How would you like them?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

"Scrambled it is, then, Your Highness. Come down when you smell them."

She grumbled her response, and John smiled, knowing from experience that she wouldn't be fully awake until after at least two cups of tea (Earl Grey, with a dash of cream and two spoonfuls of sugar). He was the opposite—he needed very little sleep, and once he was awake, that was it. Coffee and tea were, as Ian had put it once, "dangerous weapons" in his hands. Armed with caffeine he was jumpy and annoying to the point that Helen had once threatened to castrate him if he continued his antics. (By whose definition was singing Madonna at the top of his lungs at a much higher register than usual annoying?)

He had just put the kettle on and popped the toast in the toaster when the doorbell rang. He stiffened for a moment, knowing exactly who it was, before he sighed, all prospects of a relaxing Sunday gone. He looked down at his clothes—a pair of flannel pants, a concert shirt and the robe his mum had given him the Christmas before—and decided that MI6 could deal with it. It was, after all, really bloody early.

He answered the door with a blank face. "Hello?" he asked, playing his part. "What can I do you for?"

The man at the door—John thought he might have recognized him, but all MI6 henchmen looked the same: a nondescript black suit with a slight bulge at the waist—nodded grimly. "You're mother is very ill," he said. "May I come in?"

Shit. They only used the mother line when there was some serious stuff going on. The only ones he'd ever gotten before were the niece and cousins ones. He wondered briefly what the neighbours would think had any of them actually been listening to the greetings at the door—they must have though he had some damn unlucky family. Come to think of it, maybe that was why Mrs. Parker always looked at him like he was some lost puppy.

John didn't respond, but he did open the door a touch wider. The agent brushed past him without saying much else. John glanced outside—nothing unusual—and closed the door. He led the man into the kitchen, where the tea was boiling. He picked up the kettle experimentally. There seemed to be enough for both the agent and Helen, so he figured it was safe to offer tea.

"No, thank you," the man responded, sitting rigidly in his chair. Instead, he took the case he was carrying and laid it out on the table. John kept his back to him.

"I'm going to run upstairs," he said. "I'll be back."

The agent nodded, looking faintly disapproving. Well, fuck that. He would at least take care of his wife—if he was leaving for as long as he thought he might be; it was the very least he could do. So he ignored the man and poured the now boiling water into Helen's favourite mug, before putting the kettle down and heading to the refrigerator for cream. He took his sweet time with the sugar and cream, mostly because the man had pissed him off.

Helen was sitting up in their bed when he reached the upstairs, still looking adorably sleepy. He put the mug on the nightstand next to her and gave her a peck on the forehead.

"Breakfast in bed, then?" she asked, looking hopefully back at her pillow.

John sighed. "I wish. Someone from MI6 just arrived. I'll bring it up when he leaves, if you'd like."

She pursed her lips. "No," she said, "I may as well get up and ready. I've got some paperwork to fill out anyway."

"Okay," John said, leaning in for another kiss. "I'll still let you know when he leaves."

"Mmm," she mumbled, picking up her tea. "Don't let them send you anywhere too crazy."

He sighed again. "You know I can't control that. Maybe in a few years, when I'm higher ranked."

Helen took a sip of her tea. "I know," she said, sighing. "But a girl can hope, can't she?"

"Never stop hoping," he said heading to the door. "Be back soon."

The agent's briefcase was back on the floor when he arrived downstairs, but on the table sat a large pile of folders that hadn't been there before. His cover, presumably. He eyed it with distaste. It looked much too thick for his liking.

John pulled out the chair opposite the agent. "Alright," he said. "Hit me."

The man didn't roll his eyes, but he did shoot John a dry look. "You've been chosen for an extremely important and difficult assignment. Normally Mr. Blunt would brief you for something of this magnitude, but he is quite busy at the moment."

"The Triads again?" John asked, leaning forward on his kitchen table. He laughed when the man looked surprised. "Don't look so shocked, I'm not a spy for nothing."

His lips thinned. "Yes, the Triads. Now, if you'll let me continue, I was talking about this assignment—this very _dangerous_ assignment, if you remember correctly."

John mimed zipping his lips, but despite the clownish exterior, a sense of dread was coursing through him. This was looking worse and worse. It was looking like deep cover. Deep cover was both a blessing and a curse in his job—do it right and you were on the fast track to the top. Screw it up and you were dead.

He knew people who had ended up both ways.

"After the Cold War ended, spies from every side found themselves out of work. So, as far as we can tell, they banded together and formed an organization they call Scorpia: sabotage, corruption, intelligence and assassination. They are not in it for ideological reasons—just for the money. They will help to overthrow one government one week and assassinate the leader they put into power the next. But that is all we know about them. We don't know where they're located, or how clients get in touch with them. We know far less about them then we are comfortable with.

"And that's where you come in."

"I don't have a choice in this, do I?" John asked with his heart up in his throat.

The agent shook his head. "No. Mr. Blunt has chosen you personally. He believes that you have all of the correct characteristics, and your record speaks for itself."

John swallowed and nodded slowly. "How deep, exactly, would this cover be?"

"Complete," the agent said, pulling a file open. "Next Saturday night you will be seen at a bar. You will be seen accidentally killing a man. You will spend an undetermined amount of time in prison until your hearing. Scorpia will approach you. You will accept their proposal and you will train with them, sending us as much information as you can get away with."

He handed John a newspaper clipping with his SAS photo printed. It already had next Sunday's date at the top of it. It went into detail about his military service, his life, why he would be in the bar, exactly what would happen in that bar. It mentioned Helen by name.

He felt ill.

"I can't," he said, pushing it away. "Can't you find someone without family—without a wife? I can't even imagine what this will do to Helen." He could imagine it, actually. He could imagine it very well. It would destroy her. She would insist on supporting him, and her colleagues would slowly start to shun her, and her friends begin to cancel plans...

The agent didn't pause. "No," he said. "You have been chosen—you will complete the assignment. The fact that you have a wife only serves to make your cover more believable."

"I _can't_," John repeated, desperately. "What about Ash? What about Bourne, or Hollbrook? There are plenty of other agents..."

"Agent Howell has yet to prove himself; the other two you mentioned are already on assignment. There is one other that Mr. Blunt thinks could pull this off, but for some reason he seemed to think you would be reluctant to have him do it."

"What?! No! If there's _anyone_ else that can do this; let them! I _can't_!"

The agent gathered his papers. "Very well then. Your brother lives just a few streets down, does he not?"

John blinked incredulously. "What are you saying?" he asked in a low whisper. "Ian isn't... Ian _couldn't_... I would know..."

The agent paused in his paper gathering. "Your brother has been in our service for nearly a year now. He hasn't told you?" He sounded artificially surprised.

"A year?" John breathed, training his gaze on the other man. "It's... not possible!"

"You _have_ been a bit occupied," the agent allowed, allowing his eyes to drift upward, to where he could hear the shower running. To where Helen was.

He and Helen had been married almost a year—it was their anniversary in a month. Their honeymoon hadn't been long, but he supposed he could've lost himself in life with her. When had been the last time he had actually spoken with Ian? Really spoken, not just exchanged meaningless platitudes?

It pained him that he couldn't remember. But he did remember one thing: he had never told Ian that he worked for MI6. He assumed that his brother still thought he was SAS. John tried to remember where Ian worked.

And then it clicked. The overseas manager of a bank. They had had a party, with a few of Ian's university friends and Ash and Helen. It had seemed so sudden. John suddenly felt very stupid. A _bank_! It should've been obvious when Ian had never let the name of the bank slip. It should've been obvious when he came back from a trip in Hong Kong with a black eye that he claimed was from an overenthusiastic bank manager who had accidentally clipped him with a briefcase.

John knew the signs. Why hadn't he looked for them in his own brother?

The agent was still staring at him. He stood. "I'll go to inform your brother of his new assignment. He will accept. It's just the opportunity he's been looking for. Your brother is quite the ambitious man."

That got him. Ian _was_ bloody ambitious—he always had been. He had once sabotaged his own girlfriend for a scholarship. John grabbed his forearm. "I'll do it," he said hoarsely. "I have to."

The agent sat back down. "I thought you would say that. Here are your folders. Study them. Burn them when you're through."

"I know the drill," John said, glaring at them morosely.

"Call the bank if you have any questions. Ask for Crawley."

"Goodbye, Agent Crawley," John said, his voice rough. The man seemed to recognize the dismissal, for he rose without speaking.

"Goodbye, Agent Rider. And good luck."


	2. Chapter 2

I'm afraid I've got a bit of a timeline error on my hands...It says in Scorpia that it was a few weeks after John and Helen got married that he was in the bar fight. I'm going to ignore that. :P To compensate, I've made it so that he was only in the army for two years, instead of three. (If you're at all interested in a timeline, CunningMascara has made a great one at http://sunny-and-the-walking-contradiction (dot) blogspot (dot) com/. You can add stuff, too, if you find it in the books.)

(By the way, I really shouldn't be writing this right now. I have two papers and a bunch of other miscellaneous stuff due tomorrow that I should be doing. But I love you guys too much. Please do enjoy the efforts of my procrastination!)

By the way, anyone who guesses the name of the song the title comes from wins a special prize!

Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.

* * *

John was still sitting at the table, head in his hands and manila folder untouched, when Helen came down the stairs a half-hour later. He saw her pause out of the corner of his eye, standing in the entryway to their small kitchen.

"John?" Her voice was tentative. "Is everything all right?"

He let out a deep sigh to look at her. Even with her hair up in those absurd curlers, she looked wonderful—and worried. "No. No, it really isn't."

She frowned and pulled out the chair next to his. Putting her hands over his, she asked quietly, "What is it this time?"

His fists clenched under the warmth of her fingers. "Deep cover." He avoided her eyes. "I leave next Sunday."

Helen twisted her hand so that their fingers were intertwined. "What does it involve?" Her voice was tight with nerves that she tried to hide. But John, like he had told Crawley, wasn't a spy for nothing. He noticed these things—and it helped that he knew Helen better than anyone on earth.

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. When he spoke, his voice was steady. "Next Saturday night, they've set it up so that it will look like I kill a man in a bar." Helen's fingers tightened around his. "Apparently this is supposed to make a big shot criminal organisation recruit me—and that's where I have to stay. It's purely intelligence, he told me."

Her voice barely more than a whisper, Helen asked, "How long?" She was clenching his hand almost painfully tightly.

He shrugged hopelessly. "I'm not sure. I'm supposed to gather as much information as I can about this organisation—I'm at MI6's mercy. I'm only done when they say I'm done."

Helen let go of his hand and brought her fingers up to rub at her temple. "There was no one else qualified?" She sounded desperate.

Something in John tore a little bit at her question. He didn't even consider lying to her, but this...this was bad news.

"According to Crawley, there was one other agent who qualified." Helen's eyes snapped from the opposite wall and locked gazes with him.

"Why are you doing it, then?" A hint of hope had creeped into her voice, and John cringed.

"Just one problem with that, love. The 'other agent' that Crawley mentioned...it was Ian."

There was a long, long pause. Helen looked at him with something akin to fear in her eyes.

"I know!" John laughed bitterly. "My brother, working the same job as me, and I didn't even notice! Hell, my brother, working in the same bloody _office_ as me and I _still_ didn't know!" He stood suddenly, the chair sliding across the linoleum flooring. "What kind of brother _am_ I?"

He turned and faced the counter, unable to look at Helen's frozen face. He rubbed at his eyes wearily. He heard Helen's chair scoot across the floor, and her footsteps as she approached him.

"John," she soothed, putting a hand on his shoulder, "you can't blame yourself. Ian's grown now; he makes his own decisions. I know he doesn't think of it like that."

John, who had loosened under Helen's hand, stiffened again. "You _know_ he doesn't think of it like that?" He spun around suddenly, accidentally knocking Helen's hand back to her side. "How? Have you spoken to him?"

He was expecting her to deny it. He was expecting a soothing denial, a correction to an earlier misstep. She paused just a second too long.

"No, no, of course not. It's just; he's your brother..." Her sentence petered off at the betrayed expression on his face.

"You knew," he said, comprehension dawning. His voice was incredulous. "I can't believe it. You knew my brother was a spy and you didn't tell me!"

Helen flinched. She grabbed John's arm, but he couldn't feel it. "John, listen! I see how you look when you come back from assignment, and I started to notice the same thing happening to Ian—so I put two and two together and confronted him about it."

"And you didn't find it necessary to tell me?" His voice was harsh, and he inwardly cringed. He hated fighting with Helen—but Lord! What had she been _thinking_!?

"John, it was his decision to keep it from you. It's not my choice to make!"

He wrenched his arm away. "Helen, I didn't think I would have to remind you of this, but _we're married_! He's my _brother_! I need to know about things like this!"

He knew immediately that he had gone too far. Helen had an infamous temper when provoked. She snapped. "Well then you should have bloody paid attention to your family, shouldn't you have, John? Like you said, he's _your_ brother!"

With one last, scathing look, she turned away, grabbed her coat and keys, and walked out the front door, slamming it behind her. She hadn't touched her breakfast.

John fell into his seat. Shit. He had screwed up, big time. Looking at the manila folders lying innocently on the table, he scooped them up to carry them to his office. He would enjoy burning these.

* * *

John stood outside of Ian's house in his raincoat, staring at the front door. His hair was sopping wet. He couldn't bring himself to knock on the door—couldn't even bring himself to walk up the front steps.

It felt as if he had been standing there for hours when his brother opened the door, sporting a grin. It looked forced and fake.

"You coming in, or are you planning on standing there all day?"

John gritted his teeth and pushed his feet forward, up the concrete steps and into the warm entryway. "Thanks," he muttered when his brother took his coat. When had Ian grown up?

"Tea?"

John shook his head. "I'm fine. I just need to talk to you."

Ian shrugged, facing the stove with his back to John. "Whatever you say. I'm going to have some."

John took a seat at his brother's table, still dripping onto the floor. He was cold—inside and out. God, what an idiot he had been.

After a moment, Ian sat down across from him, both hands wrapped around his mug. "All right. What have you done?"

John frowned. "I've been an idiot, but that's not why I've come to see you."

Ian leaned back in his chair. "Okay. Then why did you come to see me? _Then_ you can tell me what you've done."

John felt suddenly bitter. He was supposed to be the older brother—but Ian was doing his job for him. Couldn't he do anything right?

"You didn't tell me that you work for MI6. Why?"

John doubted that anyone else would have seen it, but Ian paled slightly and his hands stiffened around his tea. There was a pause. "How did you figure it out?"

John didn't pause. "I put two and two together," he lied, borrowing Helen's earlier line. "Once I started paying attention, it was obvious. But I asked a question—why didn't you tell me?"

He wasn't sure why he was lying. Really, he could tell Ian about Scorpia—his brother was a part of MI6, and immediate family. Legally, Ian was allowed to know. But something was stopping him.

Ian's shoulders slumped. "I'm not sure. I've always lived in your shadow, John. It was an honest coincidence that we ended up in the same job, but I wanted to work through my own means, not boosting myself up through your reputation."

John couldn't help but stare. "Ian, I think that is possibly the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. You fight for your own arse at MI6. You weren't going to get any special treatment. Surely you realized that after you started?"

Ian sat up straight. "Yeah, I realized it. But I _liked_ it." He let out a bitter laugh. "I _liked_ knowing something you didn't. I'm not sure if you ever realized this, John, but it was pretty damn hard coming after you—you of the perfect marks, perfect girlfriends and perfect life. I didn't join the army specifically because you _had_, even though that was all that Dad ever wanted of me. All I wanted was to stop being _compared _to you—and spying seemed the way to do it.

"Of course, I found out about two days after I started that you'd already been recruited. Quite the slap in the face, that was." He paused. "I could have told you then, but I...couldn't. I kept telling myself I would do it later, but I never did."

"And then Helen confronted you about it." It wasn't a question, but John wanted his brother's confirmation.

Ian made eye contact for the first time. He seemed to be searching John. "Yes," he said, finally. "About four months ago. I made her swear not to tell." His eyes narrowed. "She didn't tell you, did she?"

John shook his head mutely. "No. I figured it out on my own."

Something clicked in Ian's eyes. He leaned back in his seat. "You had a fight?"

John nodded and put his head in his hands on the table. "I was such an idiot." His voice sounded muffled. "I can't be fighting with her—not now."

"Not now?"

"Big assignment coming up." Minor understatement, there, but he couldn't bring himself to think of Scorpia.

Ian looked understanding and didn't ask questions, for which John was immensely grateful. He already felt weird enough lying about it when Ian was being so honest with him.

There was a moment of silence where neither of them said anything. John's head was still spinning somewhat from Ian's...confessions, of a sort. Not really confessions, but he didn't know what else to call them. It sort of boggled his mind to think that Ian—easily one of his best friends growing up—had felt this way. How had they grown so far apart?

"So. How do you plan on fixing the mess you made with Helen?"

John frowned. "I'm not sure. She was...very angry, when she left."

Ian's face retained its characteristic stoicism. The moment of vulnerability was gone. "Visit her at work. Let her know that you _know_ you made a mistake. Knowing Helen, she won't be able to stay angry for very long."

Helen had a temper quick to ignite, but also—thankfully—quick to extinguish. Maybe he would bring her flowers.

John smiled at his brother. "Thanks, Ian. How did you ever get so good with women? Some secret girlfriend I should know about?"

Ian allowed a small grin. "No, just experience in the field. For some reason, I've gotten a lot of missions that require me to seduce women. Temperamental creatures, the female species...but I'm not complaining."

John let out a bark of a laugh. "Seems the higher-ups know how to utilize your good looks! So, where have you been so far?"

Ian leaned forward, his face coming alive. "Everywhere! Paris, Buenos Aires, Hong Kong, Amsterdam...it's been amazing. And it's not like the missions have been hard, either, considering that I'm a beginner."

John smiled. His brother seemed to fit perfectly into the world of espionage—he'd always loved to travel, and had taken to new cultures like he'd lived there his whole life. Still, he was inwardly apprehensive. Spies didn't usually live very long.

But he supposed that he really couldn't judge. Especially with the Scorpia assignment hovering in front of him like some sort of malevolent spectre. Another stab of guilt and dread shot through him at the mere thought of it.

They talked for a while more; John thankful that he had taken the opportunity to get to know his brother again, before he had to excuse himself.

"It's no problem," Ian said, standing and pushing his chair in. "I understand that you've got a marriage to mend?"

John laughed. "Thanks again for the tips." He paused in the entryway, his hand on the doorknob. "And...I'm sorry we couldn't talk about this sooner." It came out in a rush. "Don't...don't be afraid to tell me things, all right? I'm your big brother."

Ian looked at him in that way of his—as if he could see his soul. "All right, John. I will."

With that, John turned to walk back into the rain.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: So I've been neglecting my stories lately. School has been crazy-hectic, and fanfiction regretably had to take a backseat. From now on, though, I'm going to make an effort to update at least one story a week (not counting _Collection_, where I'm aiming for once-a-day updates), starting with the ones that haven't been updated in the longest. No promises on which ones will go when, though. Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Time flew by startlingly quickly. It felt to John as if he blinked and Saturday was staring him in the face. Every move he made threatened to bring meals back up. Helen, never good at coping, had taken to changing the subject whenever John tried to talk to her about his mission.

Neither of them spoke as they fell into bed on Friday night, tired from a day of painting their spare room. John still had spatters of the beige colour on his hands. The lights were off, but neither of the two was sleeping.

Finally, Helen sighed. It was a sad sound; it was a breath of wind in the still night. She shifted in the bed to face John. "I love you," she whispered.

John reached over and ran his thumb down her cheek. She was beautiful. "I love you too. And I'm sorry."

Helen smiled, but it was tinged with worry and sadness and some other inscrutable emotion. She took his hand and kissed his fingers. "It will painful, I think, and difficult, to pretend that I'm disgusted by you."

John brought her closer to him under the covers, relishing in her warmth. It struck him suddenly that he would not share a bed with Helen again until this was all over.

Their foreheads touched, their limbs intertwined. Helen's eyelashes tickled his. "You've always been a good actress," he whispered. "And that's all this is. Acting. Pretending. All I do on the job is play pretend."

Helen sighed, letting out a breath that smelled of toothpaste. Her eyes screwed shut, and she gripped John's hands tightly underneath the covers. He watched, feeling something sharp bubble in his chest and throat, as a tear escaped her eye. Helen took a deep and shuddering breath. More tears—silent and quick—ran down her face and toward the mattress.

Instead of speaking, he held Helen close. Still lying on his side, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him. She gripped the front of his shirt and started to cry. Her tears dripped slowly onto his shoulder. They stung him as if they were acid. John kissed whatever he could reach. Her hair, her cheek, her ear, her neck. It only took a few minutes for her to cry herself out.

As she relaxed, John loosened his grip until they were once again face-to-face. "I'm afraid that I'll start to forget you," she whispered, like it was a confession. "I'm afraid that I'll start to believe my own story." She paused, her chocolate brown eyes drilling into his. "I'm afraid of being alone."

John's heart broke a little. "It won't be that long," he tried to convince her—and himself. "Just a few months, and I'll be back and safe at home. We can go to the French shore. A vacation, just the two of us. You've always wanted to visit Côte d'Azur, right?" he asked, his voice gaining confidence. He didn't wait for an answer. "We'll go. Nice, or Toulon. Ian's been to Toulon—he says there's a little place right on the beach where we could stay. There'll be museums and sailing and grand architecture. It will be sunny and everything will be perfect. I promise." He planted a light kiss on her nose.

Helen's sigh was soft but resigned. "Paint all the pretty pictures of the end that you want, John. But before that can happen, you'll be gone."

John nodded. It wasn't long after that that they both fell asleep.

-:-

All day Saturday, John couldn't bring himself to think about what was to come. Dread settled like a physical weight in his stomach as he stewed around the house, trying to distract himself. Helen had taken another shift at work. His cover would look better if people assumed that they were fighting.

John found himself jittery as the sun began to set. Soon, he would leave, seeking out a bar to soothe his troubles. He would get offended by a man speaking poorly of the military. And then he would change the course of his world.

The telephone was in his hands before John knew what it was doing there. He stared at it blankly. And then he dialled Ian's number.

It only rang a few times before his brother picked up. "Hello?"

John had to clear his throat. "Hi Ian."

There was a slight pause. "John. What's wrong?"

John felt a ghost of a grin slid across his face. His brother was astute, as always. But the smile was gone before it had a chance to really exist at all. He took a deep breath. "I mentioned a big assignment to you last week." A pause. "Just…don't believe everything you read tomorrow."

-:-

His journey to the pub a few blocks away was made almost in a trance. One moment, he was standing at his door, locking up behind him (_for the last time,_ he thought to himself), and the next he was sitting at a barstool, ordering a whiskey from the bartender. It was a quiet place, yet. A couple—on a date, maybe—sat in a booth behind him. A single billiards table was set up on the other side of the bar, populated by a few men wielding pool cues and rough accents. It was here that John saw his man.

Ed Savitt—or, rather, the man pretending to be Ed Savitt—was young. Brown hair, cut short in the front, but that extended down the back of his neck, and hazel eyes. He was tall, and looked spindly, but John could see hints of muscle beneath his jacket, and calloused hands holding the pool cue. He bent to take his shot. His eyes met John's only for an instant, but in that instant John saw everything he needed to know. Savitt was ready.

John took a quick sip of his whiskey. He wasn't.

He only had one drink. The bartender, who was an MI6 contact, gave him water after that. The bar filled slowly, but was soon raucous. John thought he spotted two other agents: a lonely man dressed in an old suit, having a plate of fish and chips in a solitary booth, his eyes carefully watching the bar; and a waitress whose eyes were a tad more alert than normal, her fanny pack just a tad too full.

It was maybe 9:30 when John stood. This was it. For an instant, he was tempted to leave, to take Helen and run far away—to France, perhaps. But the moment passed quickly, and his feet led him toward the men playing pool.

"Mind if I join?" he asked, his voice deliberately gruff. A blonde man with a scruffy beard seemed to inspect him and then smiled, picking a pool cue from the wall and tossing it to John.

"Eight-ball rules," he said easily. "You're stripes."

It had been a long time since John played pool, but the rules were easy enough to remember. He sunk two balls in with relative ease, enamouring him to the group instantly—or at least to his teammate, a large man who looked as though he could play rugby, with a closely-shaven head, bulging muscles, and a tattoo on his shoulder. Savitt groaned when John played the shots, but was careful not to make too much eye contact. He mumbled something under his breath.

John stiffened. "What was that?"

Savitt looked up, his face defiant. "You better not have come over 'ere just to beat us. We like a good sport."

John gripped his cue more tightly, until his knuckles turned white. "What're you saying?"

"What I'm _sayin'_," Savitt grumbled, leaning across the table, "Is that I wouldn't be too far surprised if you turned out to be a cheatin', lyin' _bastard_. You are an army man, after all, aren't you?"

John thrust his cue into his teammate's hands. "Insult me all you want, but you'd better be prepared to defend yourself when you insult the service."

Savitt sneered. John found it startlingly easy to dislike him. "It shouldn't be 'ard," he said, handing his pool cue over to the blond man and slipping off his jacket. "After all, the Falklands showed what kind of cowards enlist in the—"

He didn't get a chance to finish. John threw his fist at the man's face, charging forward. Savitt let out a savage yell, and the two began to fight.

It was dirty. John kneed the man in the stomach only to receive a punch to the kidneys. He could hear the others cheering them on, and the bartender yelling at them to take it outside.

John lifted the man and shoved him into a table, hearing wood splinter. He punched Savitt in the gut again—holding back, he didn't _really_ want to hurt the man—and saw the air leave his lungs. John took advantage of the opportunity and punched the man—hard—in the head. Savitt's head immediately lolled to the side, but John faked punches for a moment more, until one of the other men pulled him back, yanking roughly on his arms.

John strained against the hold, breathing heavily. His eyes were deadly.

MI6's well oiled machine started up.

"Someone call an ambulance!" the lonely man from the booth yelled. He pushed his way through the crowd, claiming that he was a doctor. The bartender obliged, his frantic voice cutting through the chaos. The waitress hurried to bring ice and paper towels, dabbing first at Savitt's wounds and then John's own.

"Good show," she whispered to him as she wiped blood from John's face. John didn't respond.

The police and ambulance—also engineered by MI6—arrived quickly. Savitt was still unconscious. His chest barely rose at all. His buddies glared at John. The blond one spat on the ground in front of him. John made a show of struggling against his captor's hold, and the man behind him tightened his grip.

A fat officer with a moustache like a walrus and a sweaty brow plodded heavily over to John. His expression was serious. "I hope you know what you've done."

John said nothing. It was going to be a long night.


End file.
